The Power of Knowledge
by babedarlingpotter
Summary: "Dear Harry, knowledge is power. This letter is attached to a parcel containing books - seven magnificent books." Harry receives a letter on his birthday from an unknown source. What's the boy who lived to do? Not one of those read the books type. Try it!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yes, I know I have other stories, but this plot bunny just jumped out at me! I've been reading so many fan fictions about the Marauders, the Weasley, even Harry's future children, reading the Harry Potter books and I figured, "Why not?" I'm not going to write out the books page by page and have the readers respond to them. I personally think that's been overdone and I don't have the patience to do that. So I'm giving my own little twist to the idea.

I am totally posting this on a whim, so I can't promise anything about a quick update. I still haven't figured out what to do for a rising action, climax and falling action, all that whatnot... I can promise, though, a lot of Harry and Ginny. Well anyway, happy reading! Story starts at the very beginning of PoA.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And PS, some parts will be blatantly taken out of the book. J.K. Rowling owns all!

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><p><span>The Power of Knowledge<span>

Chapter 1

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of the year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework, but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.

"Oh, bugger it," Harry snarled as the torch he was using to read_ A History for Magic_ flickered out for the sixth time. Kicking the blanket off of his body and freeing his head and shoulders, Harry furiously unscrewed the torch and took out the batteries. He waited for a few seconds before placing them back in and switching the torch back on. This time, instead of lighting up for a few minutes like it usually did, it just flickered again and died.

It was all Harry could do to not scream out his frustration. There was no need to wake up the entire house. Harry still had a few hours before Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia woke up, and he had planned to finish at least two essays before then.

"If only the bloody torch would work," the twelve year old grumbled as he closed the book he was reading with a snap, the quill he was using as a pointed becoming a bookmark.

Harry turned his head to look out the window, wishing that Hedwig was here to keep him company. Perhaps if he wished hard enough, she would come soaring through the sky with a dead mouse clutched proudly in her beak. Harry smiled and yawned at the same time; Hedwig would be expecting praise if indeed she had caught a mouse.

Feeling tired but not quite ready to sleep, Harry coaxed his body to sit up and walk over to the window, where he sat on the sill and gazed forlornly out into the quiet street. Though Harry would not admit it out loud, during this time of night, Privet Drive looked beautiful – well, maybe not beautiful, but it held a sort of attractiveness to it that only comes out at night. Perhaps it was the absence of the nosey neighbours and the terror teens that paraded the streets as if they owned the place.

Harry yawned again. It was on that position, perched on the window sill and his forehead pasted on the glass, Harry Potter fell asleep, dreaming of dreams any normal student would classify as nightmares. If only he could finish that essay…

Harry woke to the strange sensation of having his ear being bitten. He jumped in shock, the skin on his forehead in pain as it had freed itself from the glass. Hedwig, on the other hand, flew around him in a tizzy, hooting her disapproval for being dislodged from his shoulder quite unceremoniously.

"Keep the noise, boy, or else that owl of yours would be mincemeat!" shouted Uncle Vernon from all the way down in the kitchen.

Frowning, Harry wondered if he had overslept. He cast his eyes around for his watch, but saw instead an outdated calendar he was using to count the days until the 1st of September. It was a Saturday, and Saturdays were the only days Uncle Vernon woke up extra early to make breakfast. It was a strange concept to Harry, his hippo of an uncle cooking food, but then he must love his aunt very much to give her a day off.

"I'm sorry, girl," whispered Harry to Hedwig as the bird settled on his proffered arm. "I didn't know you were there."

Hedwig hooted once in forgiveness and twice to notify Harry of his mail. Upon seeing the piles of letters and the various parcels that came with them, the now official thirteen year old boy grinned. It was his birthday – how could he forget? He read all the letters and looked through all the gifts, expressing his joy verbally whenever he unwrapped a parcel. His favourite so far was Hermione's gift: a Broomstick Servicing Kit that was very much appreciated.

There were only two letters and one package left, and Harry reached out to read his Hogwarts letter. He frowned at the mention of needing to have a signed slip to be able to go to Hogsmeade, but then figured that he could as Uncle Vernon later… if his uncle was wanted to come close enough to something as 'strange' as parchment to sign it.

From her perch on Harry's bedside table, Hedwig hooted, as if sensing Harry's disappointment.

"I said keep the noise down, boy!" yelled Uncle Vernon, which only prompted Hedwig to hoot some more. Harry frantically tried to shush her and only marginally succeeded after bribing her with owl treats.

"Now, who could this one be from?" Harry asked himself, opening the last letter. He already opened his gifts from Ron, Hermione and Hagrid, and he already had his Hogwarts letter. Who else would greet him on his birthday? Judging from the parcel that came with the missive, Harry knew that it was a present – a quite large present – but from whom?

_Dear Harry,_ the letter said. _Francis Bacon once said that "Knowledge is power." He was right. This letter is attached to a parcel containing books - seven magnificent books that hold so much knowledge, they can change the course of history. Be careful with them. Don't let just anyone read them._

Perplexed but otherwise curious, Harry peeled off the plain brown wrapping of the strange parcel. What was revealed was a box, completely Muggle looking though Harry was sure it arrived via owl post. What other explanation could there be? Harry quickly opened the box and saw that, yes, there were books inside. He wouldn't go as far as say that they were magnificent books because, well... the books were about him.

_Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets._

With a muttered curse, Harry picked up the two books and read their respective summaries:

**_Harry Potter thinks he is an ordinary boy - until he is rescued by a beetle-eyed giant of a man, enrols at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, learns to play Quidditch and does battle in a deadly duel. The Reason: Harry Potter is a wizard!_**

**_Harry Potter is a wizard. He is in his second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Little does he know that this year will be just as eventful as the last..._**

"Bloody hell!" Harry cursed again, sounding very much like his best friend Ron. "This is - this is beyond weird, even for the Wizarding World." Harry turned to Hedwig as if trying to convince her, though he knew deep inside that he was convincing himself. "I mean," he continued, "I know I'm famous and everything, but I don't think they'd go as far as writing some sort of biography about me. I'm no Lockhart!"

Harry sat absently on his bed, disturbing Hedwig from her preening. There was silence for a few moments, then: "Bloody hell." And Harry Potter laid on his back, hoping that the books were just an elaborate prank from someone - Fred and George, more likely. Though, Harry doubted the Weasley twins knew who Francis Bacon was.

"Well," Harry said to no one in particular. "There's no other way to find out."

And so Harry Potter, the boy who lived, spent his thirteenth birthday reading story books about his life.

_Page Break_

It was six days later that Harry finished the first three books and since then, Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon's horrible sister, had been living with them. Harry avoided her as much as he could (he still remembered that time he was stuck up a tree until way past midnight because of her and her vicious dog), and so his was spent locked up in his room, reading. He was already way into the fourth book, _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_, and while it was still odd to read about himself, it was quite gratifying to read about the possible future (though Harry doubted his future would ever include an escaped convict, or an obscure tournment that would bring three different schools from three different countries together in one drafty castle).

Harry was in denial, to say the least. Even though the first two books were as accurate as they could be, Harry still refused to believe that someone named J.K Rowling knows that much about his past, his present _and_ his future. It was all make-believe. Some avid Boy Who Lived fan must have been stalking him the past few years or something like that.

Still, Harry had to admit that the books were good. Reaching out absently for the _Goblet of Fire_, Harry thumbed through the pages until he was at the page he left off before he had breakfast.

**_"As you know, three champions compete in the tournament," Dumbledore went on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."_**

The story then went on to describe the Cup, the rules of the game and the various reactions from the students. Harry particularly liked the part where Fred and George tried to put their names into the Cup. Only they would be clever enough to make an Aging Potion and at the same time thick enough to think that they can fool one of Professor Dumbeldore's enchantments.

Book Fred and George really should have listened to Book Hermione. Harry continued reading with a fond smile, but as he neared the end of the chapter, that smile dropped into a grimace. He knew that it was too good to be true:

**_There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out - "Harry Potter."_**

Harry was glad, once again, that this was happening to Book Harry and not himself. He read through the next few chapters with great speed, growing annoyed at Cedric for not believing him, at his fellow Gryffindors for celebrating even though his being chosen as a Champion was nothing to celebrate, and finally, Harry was annoyed at Ron for his blatant jealousy.

"He should _know_ that I didn't put my name into the cup!" Harry yelled out of nowhere. Sensing his anger, Harry placed the book down and tried counting up to ten. When that didn't work, he glanced outside and saw that it was already mid-morning. Perhaps he could go out for a walk.

Feeling that that was a good plan as any, Harry shoved his feet into his trainers and practically ran out of his room. He paused by the door, debating whether to bring the book or not, but then he figured that the reason he was taking a walk in the first place was because of that book, so he left it there on his bed, partially covered by his sheets.

"Just where do you think you're going?" asked Aunt Marge, taking Harry completely by surprise. Having made a beeline for the front door, he did not see her standing there in the hallway, talking to someone on the phone.

Harry pursed his lips together and, schooling his features to be as innocent as possible, turned around slowly. In exchange for a signed slip to Hogsmeade, Harry promised his uncle that he would be in his best behaviour. He could not let the events of _Prisoner of Azkaban_ come true. He _will_ get his slip signed from his uncle.

"I was going for a walk," said Harry simply.

Aunt Marge's eyes thinned into slits. "No, you are not," she argued. "Your Aunt Petunia has been slaving away in the kitchen all morning, preparing lunch for the family - including you, you ungrateful brat. Forget about that walk. You're going to help her with the meatloaf."

Harry looked past the woman's shoulders and spied his aunt in the kitchen, seemingly busy with preparing the food. But Harry knew better. She was eavesdropping.

"I don't think she wants my help," said Harry. "If she does, she can ask me herself. Meanwhile, I think I'll just take that walk."

Not waiting to hear Aunt Marge's response, Harry moved to open the front door. Only he couldn't reach the knob since a large, beefy hand had grasped his elbow, spun him around. He gave a shout of surprise.

"You insolent boy!" snarled Aunt Marge with equal volume. "My brother and his wife had taken you in out of the goodness of their hearts! And you repay them with this - with this insolence! Why, I oughta use a cane like they do in St. Brutus'. Petunia!"

Aunt Petunia shuffled into the hallway, a look of displeasure on her face. "What's going on here?" she asked, feigning ignorance though Harry was sure she knew what was going on. Her knuckles, Harry noticed, were white from clutching the wash cloth too hard.

"This ungrateful wretch is refusing to pull his weight around the house," declared Aunt Marge. "The entire four days I've been here, I've barely seen him lift a finger. He spends all of his time locked up in Dudley's second bedroom and," she pulled on his arm again, "he is refusing to help in the kitchen. I say we cane him."

"Marge," said Aunt Petunia, distraught. "Surely you don't mean - Marge, you're drunk. How much brandy did you have this morning?"

Aunt Marge did not hear Aunt Petunia's question. She continued on ranting, complaining about Harry's idleness and his disrespect for her brother's family. Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at her. Drunk or not, she was overexaggerating.

"He might be the son of a no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who happened to marry your sister, Petunia, but he has no excuse to neglect his responsibilities for this family!"

"Take that back," Harry said, his voice cold. She can insult him all she wanted, Harry did not mind that, having been used to it growing up. But to insult his dead parents? That was going too far.

"Take what back?" jeered Aunt Marge. "You know it's true. Your father was unemployed, a good-for-nothing -"

"He was not!" Harry shouted. He jerked his arm free from Aunt Marge's grip, but he did not run away. He held his ground, standing as straight as he could with his hands fisted by his sides. He had never felt so angry in his life, not even when Book Ron was being a git to Book Harry.

"Harry, be quiet!" hissed Aunt Petunia. She stood in front of him, pushing him back up the stairs with her hands as she tried to reason with her sister-in-law. "Marge, dear," she was saying. "Why don't you rest for a bit. You look tired..."

"No, Petunia," refused Aunt Marge, her eyes fixed on Harry. "Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash, drunk I expect -"

"They didn't die in a car crash!"

"They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar. They were stupid to be driving while drunk - stupid even to have you at their age - and when they died, they left you to be burden to their decent, hardworking relatives!"

With every word, Aunt Marge was swelling with fury - literally. Because with each word Harry heard, his anger mounted higher and higher. Suddenly, Aunt Marge stopped speaking, as if she had run out of words to verbally insult Harry and his parents. But that was not the case. She really was swelling up, not with fury, but with air. It was uncanny how much she resembled a balloon.

That was when Harry realized that the events in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azakaban_ were coming true, despite his efforts to not let it. It came to him like Hogwarts Express had slammed into him, taking his breath away. If _Prisoner of Azkaban_ predicted this, then what about the rest of the books? Was he going to be really chosen to be a champion for a tounament he had no plans of entering? Hell - what about the prisoner, Sirius Black? Was he real, too?

Aunt Petunia's scream brought Harry out of his thoughts. By now, Aunt Marge was twice the size she used to be - and that was saying something. Not knowing what else to do, Harry dodged around the two women and dived for the lock latched on his cupboard door. It popped open magically and Harry wasted no time in opening his trunk to get his wand. Shoving that in his back pocket, he hastily closed his trunk again and grabbed Hedwig's empty cage.

"What is the meaning of this?" shouted Uncle Vernon from upstairs. In the background of everything, Harry heard a toilet flushing. "Boy, what do you think you are doing?"

"Leaving." Harry pushed past Aunt Marge; she bounced against the walls like a soap bubble, only she didn't pop. Harry managed to make it out into the garden before Vernon realized that his sister was now a human balloon.

"You! You put her right!" he was screaming at him. "Come back here and put her right!"

But Harry was not listening. He was turning the corner, his trunk clutched in one hand, trailing behind him, and Hedwig's cage in the other. He already knew where to go. The only problem now was how to retrieve his books from his bedroom. _Those books_, Harry thought,_ are very special. I can't let Uncle Vernon throw them away or, worse, burn them..._

Arriving at Magnolia Crescent where, according to the _Prisoner of Azkaban_, he was supposed to seek refuge in, Harry sat down on the pavement and took a moment to calm himself. If he could think straight, if those thoughts about a runaway prisoner and enchanted cups would just go away, then perhaps he could come up with a plan.

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><p>AN: Please respond. Review?

=D


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! Seven is a magical number (Ginny would attest to that ^_^).

I tried my best to gather as much information as possible about Number 4 Privet Drive, its layout, appearance, the street its on and the others around it. I've checked out both Harry Potter Wikia and the Harry Potter Lexicon, understood as much of the maps as I could despite my inability to read them (*cringe*), so please don't make fun of Harry's plan to retrieve his things.

Moreover, the back alleyway involved in this chapter was not mentioned in the books, so I've had to use my own experience. I lived in the north of England for a couple of years (yes, I know it's far from Surrey - kindly shut up). I remember the street my house was on had an alleyway where the backs of the houses of two streets face each other. Does that make sense?

If it helps, you can check out the link to the map I'm using: http:/ /w w w .hp -lexicon. org/ atlas / britain /atlas -b-privet- 3. html (Just take away the spaces.)

Oh, and I'm going to assume that the house above Number 4 (on the map) is Number 2, and the one below is Number 6.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And PS, some parts will be blatantly taken out of the book. J.K. Rowling owns all!

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><p><span>The Power of Knowledge<span>

Chapter 2

The plan Harry Potter came up with after a quarter of an hour's worth of contemplation was simple. It was made up of four steps. A nice, even number.

Step one was to hide behind Number 2's hedges until the two members from the Accidental Magic Reversal Department come to right things and therefore provide a distraction, or, in case he was too late to catch the Ministry officials, he could wait until everyone was asleep. The waiting for the latter to occur could take hours, and Harry did not fancy working against the summer breeze so that his Invisibility Cloak would not accidentally reveal any of his limbs. He sincerely hoped that Aunt Marge was still as balloon shaped as she should be.

For step two, Harry needed to get through the high hedges somehow and then walk over the flower bed (just to spite his Aunt Petunia), go around the greenhouse and then make a beeline towards the back door. Once in the kitchen, Harry would have to sneak as quietly as he could across the house until he reached his bedroom.

Step three was the hardest of them all: to gather all of his things from the various nooks and crannies he had hidden them. More specifically, he had to ply the loose floorboard under his bed so that he can retrieve the pillowcase that contained his summer school work, his quills and ink bottles. Of course, he could not forget his brithday presents from his friends and the biographical books that seemed to be about his life.

That last one was the most important of them all.

And finally step four, in which Harry needed to execute as carefully as possible or else any of his previous efforts to breach his personal prison willingly would be in vain. That is, he needed to exit the house without notifying his relatives that he had ever been in. It would be easy enough to do, as long as Harry kept his cool and remained as quiet as possible.

The plan was simple. It was so simple, in fact, that apart from the slim possibility that his invisible self could be wedged between the wall and Dudley whilst on the staircase, nothing could go wrong. Harry was confident with that fact.

Of course, that was why things went wrong so quickly. Damn his self-confidence.

After Harry had pushed off the brick wall he was leaning on and turned the corner, he was faced with the long, straight path of the alley. (That was before things went wrong.) He stood at the mouth of the narrow pathway between Privet Drive and the next street over to the west, the backs of the similar looking, square houses facing each other. _So far so good_. (Nothing going wrong yet, either.)

Harry couldn't help the smile as he swore he heard an encouraging hoot from Hedwig all the way back in Magnolia Crescent. (Hedwig had reached him as he was stowing away his trunk behind some bins at the end of the street.)

It wasn't until he was nearing Number 2's hedges and was preparing to get his Invisibility Cloak from underneath his shirt that things began to go wrong. Two loud cracks that sounded very much like thunder resounded, and Harry insinctively looked up at the mid-morning sky to see if it would rain any time soon.

"Oi, you there!" someone shouted to Harry, the only other person visible apart from the man's companion.

_When did they get here?_ Harry wondered. The two strangers were clearly not from anywhere around Privet Drive; not only had Harry not seen them before, but they were also dressed in the most peculiar manner. They looked like they had just stepped out of a cheesy 70s sitcom.

Harry watched as the man's companion, clearly a woman from the way she had her hands on her hips, slapped the man on the head before hissing what Harry could only assume was an admonition. He heard a few snippets of the conversation as the man walked closer, the woman following close at his heels.

"...Not supposed to draw attention! We need to... get out, then find the nasty bugger who... That's our orders, Quincy."

"Merlin's beard, Gertrude," the man, Quincy, replied. "If anyone's drawing any attention, it's you channelling my mother right in front of a Muggle!"

At the mention of Quincy thinking Harry was a Muggle, the young wizard's eyebrows rose to meet his hairline. They must be from the Accidental Magic Reversal Department, sent to fix Aunt Marge. A devious smirk played on Harry's lips as he thought that, perhaps, he could play this card. And he could win all the chips if he played his cards right.

"Can I help you?" Harry asked politely, interrupting the couple's banter.

"Yes," smiled Quincy, shooting a warning glance at the frowning Gertrude. "Yes you can. My friend and I are a bit lost, you see. We were supposed to find this Mug - ow!" The man winced as he was elbowed on the ribs. "I mean, a man - my friend and I were suppose to find a _man _and help him with something. You see, his sister was -"

"That's too much information!" snarled Gertrude.

Quincy left his sentence incomplete and quickly recovered by asking Harry, the young lad he had mistaken for a Muggle, where Number 4 Privet Drive was located. "We're in a bit of a hurry, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," said Harry. "You're not far from Privet Drive, actually. If you just go back where you came from..." Harry pointed towards the end of the alley, opposite end of where he entered, "...and then turn left, the first street that you come across on the left would be what you're looking for. As for the actual house, it would be the one with the immaculate front lawn and the hydrangea bushes."

"Cheers, kid," thanked Quincy. "That's a lot of help."

Harry wondered idly whether or not the two realized that the houses were numbered, for all of the houses on Privet Drive had immaculate front lawns, and at least half had hyrangea bushes.

"Yes, thanks," said Gertrude dryly. She eyed Harry through slightly narrowed eyes - Harry had to resist the urge to make sure his hair was covering his scar, his trademark in the Wizarding world - before saying, "Don't you have to play sucker with your friends or something?"

"I think you mean soccer, ma'am," corrected Harry smoothly. "And you must not be from around here because in England, it's called football."

Gertrude colored prettily, but whatever beauty she possessed did not make up for her haughty personality. Not that Harry could blame her; most wizards and witches grew up thinking that Muggles were inferior, or that they were an interesting breed of human and were more often misunderstood.

Harry resumed his walk slowly so when the two Ministry officials turned the corner, he was only reaching the Dursley's house. Aware of his time limit, Harry upped his speed to a run and, with a well-timed jump, found himslef hiding behind the tree Ripper had chased him up once upon a time. He then draped his Invisibility Cloak over his entire body once he was sure no nosy neighbors were spying on him. His figure promptly disappeared, the only proof that he was there was the barely seen footprints on the flower beds.

Harry made it to the stairs without much trouble. Aunt Petunia was far too busy crying over the unresponsive Dudley (apparently seeing his aunt at her state shocked the reactions out of him), while Uncle Vernon paced and cursed and paced some more in the living room, Aunt Marge cursing along with him.

"I swear when I get my hands on that boy, Vernon...!" she was saying.

"You wish," Harry muttered as he climbed the stairs. He managed to reach his bedroom before the doorbell rang, signalling the arrival of the two AMRD members, Quincy and Gertrude. Harry had no wish to eavesdrop on the following shouting match - he could hear well enough without trying to listen in - so he busied himself by collecting his things.

It wasn't until the pillowcase from under the loose floorboard was filled to the brim with various odds and ends that Harry realized he needed a bigger container.

"Or," he said, eyes landing on his bed. "I could just use the duvet."

It was a difficult task sneaking past the arguing adults in the hall, especially when his Invisibility Cloak barely covered the half-filled duvet he was hauling over his shoulder. Harry was sure Dudley saw the sole of his shoe at one point, but it didn't matter much since his whale of a cousin was still in his frozen state.

As Harry found his way back to Hedwig and his trunk, he felt guilty for leaving Quincy at the mercy of his relatives. He felt guilty leaving Gertrude there as well, although not as much as Quincy. _Quincy was nice_, Harry thought as he tucked his Cloak away. _Wouldn't want to cross his path again, but he was nice. Yeah._

"Hey there, girl," Harry greeted Hedwig as she swooped down from the air and prepared to land on his shoulder. He would've reached out his arm to make for a makeshift landing spot, but he was quite busy impersonating Santa Clause.

When it appeared that Hedwig had no plans on landing on his shoulder, it was too late for Harry to anticipate the owl's decision and dodge out of the way. He yelled in pain as Hedwig landed on his head, her claws scratching at his scalp and pulling at his already messed up hair.

"Aah, gerroff me! Hedwig!"

But Hedwig was not listening, intent as she was to pull him by his hair to wherever she wanted him to be. Harry tried to reason with her, telling her that if she let go, he will follow her willingly. He bribed her with owl treats and longer hunting hours (not that he could control when she comes and goes).

Still, Hedwig did not lessen her grip.

"Ruddy bird," muttered a very, very disgruntled Harry. He had just pulled off what he would deem the best heist ever. The very least Hedwig could do was give him the appropriate reward. A hoot of congratulations? A soft nip at the ear? A spectacular aerial display?

All right, the last one was expecting too much... maybe.

A sheepish smile forced itself on Harry's face, only to be replaced by a mixture of shock and fury when he saw what had gotten Hedwig in such a tizzy: a figure was looming over the bins, seemingly searching for something. A homeless man, most likely, but Harry could not take the chance of a Muggle finding his school trunk and seeing the things inside. He only had a padlock to secure it after all.

_Note to self_, Harry thought, _find a better way to lock your trunk_.

"Hey, you!" shouted Harry, making shooing gestures with his head, now blessedly free from Hedwig's grasp. The man froze, and Harry reached out a hand to touch the small space of shoulder than was not covered with filthy, matted hair. The black wires hung to the man's elbows, not that Harry could see where his elbows were. His clothes were looser than Harry's, and that was saying something.

"Please step away from the bins, sir," asked Harry in a controlled voice. He did not want to come off as unreasonable or territorial. It wasn't like he owned the bins, just the trunk that was hidden behind them.

The man slowly turned around, like he was dreading to see the person who had caught him. The first thing Harry noticed about the man was that he looked like a corpse: the waxy skin was stretched to its limits over the bones of the man's face, and his eyes were wide and fearful. Dread exuded from every inch of him.

"H-Harry?" the man rasped.

Confusion swept the thirteen year old wizard. He was just about to ask if he knew the man when, all of a sudden, he recalled a passage from _Prisoner of Azkaban_. It was near the end, after Ron was dragged into the Whomping Willow by an enormous dog.

**_Ron was staring over Harry's shoulder. Harry wheeled around. With a snap, the man in the shadows closed the door behind them._**

**_A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If eyes hadn't been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a grin. It was Sirius Black._**

Harry's breath hitched. It couldn't be. He wan't supposed to meet him face to face until near the end of his Third Year at least! It was barely the end of summer, he hadn't begun his Third Year yet never mind being close enough to finishing it!

"Sirius," Harry choked, losing grip onthe duvet. It clattered unceremoniously on the ground. "Sirius Black."

That was all the man needed to snap into action. If it weren't for the speed Harry's youthful body provided, he would've lost his godfather - _bugger, it's strange using that word_, Harry thought- as he ran away. For a man who spent the past twelve years locked up in a Wizarding prison guarded by soul sucking monsters, Black sure ran fast.

"Wait!" cried Harry. "Mr. Black, wait!"

When Black showed no signs of slowing down, Harry growled and channelled his frustration into running faster. He was swiftly eating up the distance between them, and just when Harry planned to put on a burst of speed to reach out and tackle Black, the man turned left into the alley connecting Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. Naturally, Harry followed.

"What the...?" heaved Harry, coming to an abrupt stop. From where he was, he could see Wisteria Walk. That would be because there was no Sirius Black to block the view. Where could he have disappeared to?

Gasping, Harry leaned against the brick wall to catch his breath. The alley was empty, all right, but he saw that a large black dog was lying flat a few feet away. Its tail was thumping wildly on the ground, yet Harry would tell that it was neither happy nor excited. It was a strange behavior for a dog.

Unless it wasn't a dog. Not really, anyway.

Just before Black stepped out from his hiding place inside the Shrieking Shack, Book Ron had said to Book Harry: **_'He's the dog... he's an Animagus.'_** Harry understood that an Animagus was a witch or wizard with the ability to transform into an animal at will, much like Professor McGonagall who can turn into a cat. And Black, too. If Harry could recall correctly, his godfather's Animagus form as a large black dog that was often mistaken for the Grim.

Harry stared at the dog, debating over whether or not confront Black about his nifty trick. On the plus side, Black would be forced to transform back into his human form. On the down side, Harry would be questioned as to how he knew of that particular secret. He maybe could claim babyhood memories, but that would be unnecessary lying. Plus, he was unsure whether or not his parents would let such a large and dangerous looking dog near their one year old baby.

In the end, Harry decided not to reveal to Black that he knew his Animagus form. He'd rather the events of this year be as close as possible as to its book counterpart before changing anything drastically. Harry might not be well educated in the effects of knowing the outcomes of a possible future, but he had enough common sense to not try and meddle with things intentionally.

If he followed Book Harry's reactions throughout _Prisoner of Azkaban_, then things would turn out the same. And as far as Harry was concerned, there was nothing he could complain about in the book so far. He was sure that by the time he finishes _Goblet of Fire_, Pettigrew would be captured and he would be living with Sirius. After all, things can't get more complicated than that.

Well, apart from Voldemort. But he has no body and was not much of a danger to anyone.

Harry barely spared the Dark Lord a thought as he trudged back to Hedwig and his things.

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><p>AN: Oh my, things are happening. Tell me what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: To those who placed this little fic on Story Alert and Favorited it, thank you. And to those who took their time to review, a very warm thank you as well. It's nice to see that my efforts to tell a classic story from a different viewpoint is being appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And PS, some parts will be blatantly taken out of the book. J.K. Rowling owns all!

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><p><span>The Power of Knowledge<span>

Chapter 3

It was nearing midday, that much Harry was sure. He had spent the better part of the past hour studiously scanning the _Prisoner of Azkaban_, trying to commit it to memory. He couldn't very well bring it along with him wherever he went in the Wizarding world, or the Leaky Cauldron at the very least. Not only would people find it strange that he was reading a book about himself, but they would ask questions too.

Besides, Harry did not want people to get any ideas. He had enough books written about him, thank you very much.

Harry paused in his speed reading when he felt a familiar faint twinge in his stomach. It must have registered his thoughts about the Wizarding pub and connected it with the idea of food. Harry grimaced and shared a look with Hedwig. "I suppose it's time for us to get going, huh?"

Hedwig hooted in reply. _Took you long enough_, her look seemed to say.

"Oh, shut it, you," Harry grumbled, standing from his makeshift seat on the ground. He stuffed the _Prisoner of Azkaban_ into his trouser pockets, for once glad that Dudley's hand-me-downs were large enough to occupy a decent sized book. Harry then followed Book Stan's instructions on how to summon the Knight Bus.

**_Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go._**

Despite already knowing how the purple triple-decker bus would appear, Harry was still surprised and a slightly bit awed upon seeing the Knight Bus. He did not expect how loud the BANG was going to be, plus a triple-decker bus was _high_. If Harry didn't know better, he'd suspect it could reach the sky. Turning away from the vehicle's roof, Harry saw that its name was proudly written in gold letters on the windshield, just as the books described.

A wide grin threatened to spill off of Harry's face. "Wicked..."

"Yeah, we sometimes have that effect on people." A purple clad conductor stepped out of the bus and bowed regally. Clearly, he was not Stan Shunpike. "It is rare that a witch or wizard gets stranded during the day," remarked the man, "but we take what we can get. Welcome, young sir, to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for us Wizard folk. My name is Tim Fawlty, and I will be your conductor this fine day."

"Er, thank you," stammered Harry, taken by surprise at the sudden formality of it all. "If you could just..." he gestured lamely behind him at his trunk and Hedwig's cage, "...help me with my things and I'll -"

"Of course, of course!" exclaimed Tim. He readily grabbed Harry's school trunk by the handle and lifted it into the bus. Hedwig's empty cage, meanwhile, bobbed along behind him. "Is there anything I can get you, Mr...?" Tim asked after stowing Harry's trunk underneath a spare bed. When Harry made no signs of saying his name, Tim pursed his lips in suspicion and told the bus driver that everything was secure.

Harry wondered if Tim knew what the word secure meant seeing as, when the Knight Bus drove away with another loud BANG, he was dislodged from the bed and landed clumsily on the floor. With a bark of laughter, Tim offered his hand for Harry to take.

Muttering his thanks, Harry sat on the bed again, this time at the very center so that there won't be any repeat of his fall.

"So you're from Hogwarts then?" asked Tim, making small talk. He was looking at Harry strangely and, for the second time today, Harry resisted the urge to make sure his scar was covered. He knew it was covered. His hair was long enough. There was no need to draw attention to it.

"Why d'you ask that?" asked Harry, neither confirming nor denying Tim's assumption.

"I saw the Hogwarts crest on your trunk. Isn't it a bit early to be getting on the Express?"

"I'm going to the Leaky Cauldron."

Tim's eyes narrowed. "You're not running away from home, are you?"

"Why?" Harry countered. Tim was spot on, but Harry knew better than to admit it. "Do I look like I'm running away?"

Tim rolled his eyes in frustration. "Either you're hiding something or it's in your personality. You're a Slytherin," he accused.

Harry praised himself for keeping his cool façade while inside, he was screaming._Slytherin! What on earth did I do that came off as Slytherin?_ The Gryffindor side of him - that is, the one majority of him - bristled at Tim Fawlty's accusation. However, the Slytherin part of him - the one the Sorting Hat acknowledged two years ago while he was was being Sorted - preened with something akin to pride.

"But that can't be," frowned Tim. "You're a Muggleborn, right? You dress like a Muggle, anyhow."

"Not all Slytherins are pureblood," said Harry coolly, "just like not all purebloods are Slytherins."

Tim looked stump for a moment. Harry, too, because he was aware that he wasn't the type to say things Dumbledore might say. Hermione, maybe. She was one of his best friends, along with Ron. Out of the three of them, she was the most likely to say something deep and wise and profound, not Harry.

Feeling uncomfortable at the conductor's gaze on him, Harry fidgeted on the bed. Finally he decided to get out the elven Sickles that was the fare. The Knight Bus found London without much conversation going on between Harry and Tim, which was what the former preferred. The ride was awkward at the most, but Harry did not dwell on that thought. He had bigger things to worry about... like the Minister for Magic, for instance.

"Am I in deep trouble, Minister Fudge?" asked Harry the moment he stepped on the road in front of the Leaky Cauldron. (He knew this was coming.) Even though there was a purple triple-decker bus on the road, the many Muggles around paid no heed to it. They stared, though, at the portly little man wearing a pinstripe cloak. Who wore cloaks in this summer weather?

"No," said Fudge, squirming under the Muggles' scrutiny. "Why don't we take this inside the Leaky, shall we? We can discuss the predicament we seem find ourselves in over some hearty soup."

Harry was in no place to decline, so he sent a nod over his shoulder at Tim as a goodbye. The conductor's complexion matched his uniform when he realized that the odd student - (really, a Muggleborn Slytherin?) - was on talking terms with the Minster of Magic.

Fudge led the way inside the pub as Tom, the landlord, hobbled to the Knight Bus to collect Harry's things. When everything was settled, Harry found himself sitting opposite Fudge on a particularly large round table, eating crumpets and drinking pumpkin juice. Merlin, did Harry miss pumpkin juice.

"Well, Mr. Potter," said Fudge, pouring himself a drink from the bottle the waitress just brought in. Upon hearing Harry's name, the waitress' head snapped up and her eyes immediately sought out Harry's scar.

"Please," interrupted Harry. He had enough formalities today from Tim. "Call me Harry."

Fudge, looking flustered after being interrupted, nodded his head in understanding and continued whatever it was he was going to say. "I hope you don't mind me telling you, Harry," he locked eyes with the boy, "but you've had us all in a right flap. You shouldn't have run away from your aunt and uncle's house like that!"

Harry placed his knife and fork down and did not tear his eyes away from Fudge's. "I wasn't running away as much as I was hiding from their reaction," he admitted. Feigning concern, he asked the Minister how his relatives were faring with Aunt Marge's condition.

Meanwhile, the waitress that was staring at him snapped back to reality and scuttled out of the room.

"I won't deny anything, Harry," said Fudge. "You're aunt and uncle are extremely angry with you, but they are prepared to take you back this summer. Unfortunately, you're required to stay at Hogwarts during the Christmas and Eater holidays."

"That's fine with me. And Aunt Marge?"

"She's perfectly all right, Harry. Two of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department's most trusted and competent members were dispatched to Privet Drive thirty minutes after the incident happened. Miss Marjorie Dursley is back to her normal self and, taking into account your uncle's shouts of her being permanently scarred from this affair, her memory is wiped clean as well. She'll be just like you remembered her, Harry."

_Oh, joy._

Fudge, not noticing that Harry's smile was fake, chortled happily and chatted about trivial things as they finished their lunch. "Oh, and by the way, Harry, I've booked a room for you here in the Leaky for the last few weeks of the summer holidays. I'm sure you'll be very comfortable in room eleven. You can go wherever you want in Diagon Alley during the day, Harry. Go to Gringotts and do your school shopping. Check out that new model of broomstick at -"

"The Firebolt, you mean?" interrupted Harry, the Quidditch player in him getting the better of his manners.

"You've heard about that, have you?" asked Fudge amusedly. "It's not even out in the shops yet." Then his smile slipped off and he grew serious. "I don't want you wandering off to Muggle London. Keep to Diagon Alley only. Don't go into Knockturn Alley, either, and make sure you're to be back here before dark each night. It's for your safety, Harry. I'm sure you'll understand."

"Are you putting me in some sort of house arrest because of what I did to Aunt Marge?" Harry's tone, though light, had a hint of seriousness to it. "Because if you are, I can assure you that nothing of that sort would happen again, Minister."

"No, nothing of that sort!" laughed Fudge obnoxiously. "We just don't want to lose you again, do we? No, no... best we know where you are... Tom would be keeping an eye on you for me. Well, I think it's time for me to go!"

Harry watched Fudge stand up and re-hook the silver fastenings of his cloak. "Is this about Black then, Minister?" he asked, unable to contain himself any longer.

"What's that? Oh, you've heard - well, no, not yet, but it's only a matter of time." As he spoke, Fudge was encroaching towards the door. As he said his goodbyes, Harry forced his mouth shut from asking any more questions and let the poor man go. He already knew what's gotten his knickers in a twist: Sirius Black, the man wrongfully imprisoned for a crime one of his trusted friends had committed. What's more, he was the man whom Harry just met face to face mere hours ago.

_Page Break_

Harry Potter woke up from sleep feeling very weary. His face hurt terribly, especially around the side of his face where his glasses pressed uncomfortably against his skin. He had fallen asleep reading again and had forgotten to remove his glasses, or perhaps he had convinced himself that he was just going to rest his eyes before opening them again to finish a chapter. He had done that a lot lately, reading until his eyes couldn't take it anymore. It had come to a point that his excuses - not to mention his days - just melted into one long mesh of night and day.

But it wasn't like he could help it. After finishing the _Goblet of Fire_, Harry found that he couldn't put the _Order of the Phoenix_ down even if his life depended on it. He wanted to know what Voldemort planned on doing. The Dark Lord had gotten himself a body by the end of the fourth book, and Harry wanted to know how much damage he was causing in book five.

Harry needed to know. He needed to be ready. Opening the thick book to the right page, Harry quickly scanned the paragraphs until he found where he left off last night - or was it earlier in the morning?

**_'FOUR WEEKS I'VE BEEN STUCK IN PRIVET DRIVE, NICKING PAPERS OUT OF BINS TO TRY AND FIND OUT WHAT'S BEEN GOING ON -'_**

**_'We wanted to -'_**

**_'I SUPPOSE YOU'VE BEEN HAVING A REAL LAUGH, HAVEN'T YOU, ALL HOLED UP HERE TOGETHER -'_**

**_'No, honest -'_**

With a disgusted cry, Harry slammed the book shut and threw it across the bed. He wouldn't grow up to be that much of an self-centered idiot, would he? Shouting at his friends, thinking about only himself and not considering what others must be going through... Two years from now wouldn't find him like that, right?

"Merlin," Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck to relax the muscles. "I certainly hope not."

Harry stood up, swayed a bit as he gained his bearings, and made his way to the bathroom where he took a quick shower before going downstairs to eat his breakfast. Tom greeted his cheerfully as was the routine, and Harry smiled and listed what he felt like eating today. Despite Fudge's ominous warnings to never stray out of Diagon Alley, Harry found himself enjoying his freedom. Never before had been allowed to eat anything he pleased whenever he fancied, and it was novelty every day as his appetite showed his Gryffindor personality.

"I'd like to try something different today, Tom," Harry told the bartender.

"Don't you always?" the old man behind the bar said, chuckling. "I take it you've grown out of your French cuisine stage?"

Harry grimaced and involuntarily grabbed his stomach. Those frog's legs did not agree with him. "No, I think I'm done with the French, Tom. How about something more exotic? Indian food, perhaps? I overheard a classmate of mine talking that the spices are exquisite."

"How about some curry then?" suggested Tom. "It's not breakfast food, but it's Indian."

"Fantastic. I'll have that, then."

As Harry ate his so-called breakfast, his eyes scanned the busy pub for a familiar family with red hair. The hours passed and Harry grew anxious. Perhaps he had things wrong. Was he certain that the Weasleys would be in Diagon Alley today of all days? Maybe they had already done their school shopping and Harry had missed them because he was holed up in his room like a vampire afraid of daylight.

A frown marred the young wizard's face. With uncertainty fluttering in his stomach, Harry reached into his robes - he had begun wearing them to blend in to the Wizarding crowd - and took out the Prisoner of Azkaban. He had taken to carrying it with him everywhere, just in case he needed to check up on something. Like the date of the Weasleys' arrival, for instance.

Harry flipped through the book furiously until his eyes caught the part where Book Mr. Weasley was warning Book Harry against Black. Flipping to the pages before that, Harry scanned the paragraphs until he read over the part where he met up with Ron and Hermione. The scene was at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor.

_Should I be there?_ Harry asked himself. _But I wanted to meet them before that, and the books says that they checked the Leaky Cauldron first. Perhaps I should just follow the book's timeline -_

Loud shuffling came from the general direction of the fireplace, and Harry turned on his seat to see what the scuffle was all about. Seeing two familiar heads of hair, a grin tugged on Harry's lips. Quietly as to not give away his position, Harry crept behind the Weasley twins and, just as the Floo burped out Ginny, Harry tapped the boys' inside shoulders. They were standing so close together that when they turned around to see who wanted their attention, their heads bumped quite painfully.

"Hello there, Fred, George," Harry greeted amicably. "I trust you've had a fine time in Egypt."

"It was wonderful, Harry," said the twin whom Harry assumed was Fred. "You should've been there - ow!" Fred winced at George elbowed. "What in Merlin's name was that for?"

George rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, my less intelligent twin, I see you are completely unaware of the prank young Harry has just pulled on us."

"A prank?" echoed Fred. George nodded sombrely. "You mean the -" George nodded again and this time, Fred understood enough to realize that the reason a part of his head was throbbing was because of the young upstart more popularly known as the Boy Who Lived. "Why you..." he said before proceeding to call Harry a very nasty name.

"My sentiments exactly," agreed George, reaching out to ruffle Harry's hair.

"Hey," shouted Harry, skillfully dodging away. "What I did was completely tame compared to what you lot do! I say it was only fair that I did what I did."

"And what exactly did you do, Harry?" someone from behind Fred and George asked. The twins dutifully stepped back to reveal a soot covered Ron, flanked by his parents, Percy and Ginny, who was flushed red from laughing, having witnessed Harry's harmless trick on her brothers.

"Ron!" exclaimed Harry. The two best friends, after weeks of separation, met halfways to engulf each other in a manly hug. The hug in itself wasn't a hug, but more of a round of back slapping and uttered "glad to see you", "you look well" and "that was some bloody good magic you did on your aunt!"

The last, of course, was said by Ron. Ignoring his mother's reprimands, the redhead smiled sheepishly at Harry before asking whether he wanted to come with his family to Diagon Alley. "It's Hermione," Ron said. "She said that she'll be at Fortescue's after doing her school shopping. You haven't seen her around, have you?"

"Nah, 'fraid not. Haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts, actually." Harry rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably, debating over whether or not to tell Ron - and Hermione, for that matter - about the books he had received on his birthday. "I've uh, I've been stuck indoors most of the time."

Ron grimaced and patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Did the Minister put you on house arrest or something? I heard from Fred and George who heard from Dad that he came and got you from the Muggles."

Harry doubted that it was in Fudge's list of responsibilities as Minister of Magic to retrieve Hogwarts students from Muggle relatives for doing accidental magic. "No," Harry shot down Ron's assumption. "I wasn't put on house arrest. I was free to do anything, actually. And I did roam around the Alley the first few days. But then I got caught up in reading and -"

"Those nasty essays killing you, too?" Ron rubbed his ear, deep in thought. "I swear I almost died when Mum threatened to leave me in Egypt if I skipped on my essays."

Deciding not to correct his friend, Harry hastily bobbed his head up and down. Before long, the two boys passed by Quality Quidditch Supplies and were sufficiently distracted by the Firebolt on display. They found Hermione half an hour later in Florean Fortescue's, cradling a ball of fluffy orange fur named Crookshanks. The lecturing that followed the brief pleasantries made Harry half wish he was back in his room, but he understood that Hermione meant well.

Boy, was he glad to be among familiar faces again.

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><p>AN: Reviews are very much appreciated! ;D

PS. I created a WordPress blog to serve as my fan fiction archive; the links is in my profile, at the very bottom. It's all in the name of fun, but if you can take a little bit of your time and check it out, it would be huge help. Feedback would be wonderful since it's still in its work-in-progress stages. And if you want, you can sign my guest book! Thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: By popular demand, the story that I'm continuing (if it isn't obvious enough) is _The Power of Knowledge. _I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Remember that if anyone is confused or lost, don't hesitate to PM me. However, keep in mind that your question might be answered in a future chapter. I can't give away all my secrets in one go now, can I? ^_^

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And PS, some parts will be blatantly taken out of the book. J.K. Rowling owns all!

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><p><span>The Power of Knowledge<span>

Chapter 4

"Are you sure you packed everything before we left?" asked Hermione in her usual bossy tone, though as the years passed Harry grew a little bit immune to its effects. In fact, his slight resistance to The Tone was the reason why Hermione was using it in the first place. For all intents and purposes, Harry Potter was tuning her out. He was still listening, of course, but the larger percentage of his concentration was on his inner monologue.

_I was sure I've got them here somewhere,_ he thought, absently unloading his Potions equipment and setting them on the ground beside his opened trunk; the slight drizzle of rain coated his things. _Maybe they're next to my Quidditch gear? No, it can't be… _He had had unpacked the scarlet uniform first before everything else, since they were at the very top.

Meanwhile, Harry's best friend (the one not nagging him about his carelessness), assured the bushy haired witch that everything was going to be fine. "We're not gonna be late for the Feast, so stop badgering him."

"I'm not worried about the Feast, Ronald!" Hermione exclaimed. "I'm worried about having to walk all the way up to the castle in this weather, all because _Harry_," the boy in mention cringed as he shifted his Charms book to the right, "forgot his Hogwarts robes."

"For the last time, I did not forget them," he sighed. "I just… misplaced them. I remember putting them in my trunk before we left the castle last year, and I never took them out. They're in here. They're just… hiding from me."

"Then tell them come out of hiding!"

It was a joke – well, not quite a joke but for sure it wasn't meant to be taken seriously. You simply do not talk to lost items in hope that they'd come running back to you like a long lost lover. However, if you follow the train of thought… Harry fumbled for his wand, thinking of that time in the _Goblet of Fire_ when he called for his Firebolt.

"Harry, mate, what are you doing?" asked Ron.

"Just trying out something," he said vaguely, preoccupied by recalling that spell. It was a one-worded spell, and he was sure it ended with an _o_.

"And that something is…?"

The proverbial light bulb suddenly switched on above Harry's head. He gave a wordless cheer, sending a grin over his shoulder to his two confused best friends and then cried, "Accio school robes!" Said item of clothing came sailing from the depths of his trunk and hit Harry unceremoniously on the face. Not as smooth sailing as he predicted, but it worked out in the end.

Hermione was stuttering out a question, but she was interrupted by Ron saying, "It worked! Whatever it was, it got you your robes, Harry, so hurry up or we'll _really _miss the Feast. I dunno about you, but I don't feel like missing another Sorting."

Quickly, Harry donned his robes and stuffed all his things back in his trunk. In his haste, he overlooked a small book. At first glance it might be mistaken as a school book, and that was what Ginny Weasley thought when she accidentally stepped on it and painfully grazed her knees. On a closer inspection, however, she found that it was far from a school book – a biography maybe, but certainly not a school book.

"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone," she muttered, reading the title. "What in the world…?"

_Page Break_

After Hagrid had walked Harry, Ron and Hermione back to the castle (he even insisted on making sure they reached the Fat Lady's portrait), the three decided to retire for the evening, despite the earliness of the hour. They've had a busy first day, and they were exhausted from the added electives they were taking this year.

"Harry, d'you suppose Hagrid's going to get the sack because of this mess?" asked Ron as the boy in question came out of the bathroom. "I mean, it wasn't his fault, but…" He reclined on his bed and sent Harry a worried look. "Malfoy's a menace."

"Everything's going to be all right, Ron," assured Harry, "I promise."

Silence filled the common room in which Ron mulled over his friend's words. Absently, he scratched the side of his nose. "Yeah," he agreed finally. "The git's dad might be on the board of governors, but Dumbledore won't let anything get past him."

Ron yawned and, as he bid Harry goodnight, closed the curtains of his four poster bed. Minutes later, snores could be heard echoing in the room. Neville and Dean were already asleep, while Seamus was still downstairs doing who knows what, leaving Harry the only one awake in the Third Year Boys' dorm. His body was tired but his mind was reeling: he was sure Hagrid was going to be all right, but it wouldn't do any harm just to check, right?

Harry scrambled off his bed and quietly unlatched the locks on his trunk. Compared to yesterday, it was not as full with the majority of his clothes stowed away in his assigned dresser – that, and also because more than half of his school books were stuffed inside his book bag.

_C'mon, where are you?_ Harry shoved aside some of Dudley's disfigured hand-me-downs in search for the pile of story books that happened to revolve around his life. _Aha!_ He found them underneath his cauldron, which in turn was happily stuffed with one of Harry's shoes.

"Hallows, Prince, Order..." Harry ghosted through the titles, checking that all were accounted for. "Goblet, _Prisoner_," he fingered the book out the pile, "Chamber, Stone – hold on!" Harry shook his head and leaned closer to make sure. Right there, underneath his shoe-stuffed cauldron and located at the leftmost end, was where _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ was supposed to be. But the problem was that it wasn't.

Instantly, Harry was wide awake, traces of his weariness from just a minute before now gone. There was a brief moment in which his heart thudded loudly in his chest and his breathing had paused, but then that moment passed and Harry uttered some of the best curse words he knew (all under his breath, of course, since he didn't want to disturb his dorm mates).

The small hardbound book that basically recorded his first year at Hogwarts was missing. Missing! But how could it be? It was safely locked away in his trunk –

"Except for that time in Hogsmeade," Harry breathed. He had been so caught up in looking for his robes that he must have accidentally unearthed the book and, for some reason, he had forgotten to re-pack it. Basically, he had left a book on the ground at Hogsmeade Station where anyone could see and pick it up.

"Bloody hell," Harry wheezed, feeling very lightheaded all of a sudden. _Anyone could have picked it up! Some random person – or worse, a _Slytherin_ – could be reading about my life right now._

After closing his trunk, Harry collapsed on his bed, his head spinning at the possible consequences of his thoughtless mistake could be. For one thing his secrets could be revealed, such as Hagrid's former pet dragon Norbert, his father's Invisibility Cloak and – Harry grimaced – his life before Hogwarts. The words _cupboard under the stairs_ rang between his ears, almost loud enough to give him a headache.

"Are you okay there, Harry?"

Jumping at the new voice, Harry's head snapped towards the door and saw a slightly concerned Seamus. Harry struggled to work his throat. "Oh, um, I'm fine. I was just… going to sleep." With shaking hands, Harry slipped off his glasses, and as surreptitiously as he could, slipped _Prisoner of Azkaban_ under his pillow. Seamus was still eyeing him weirdly, but Harry quickly forgot about him as he wondered what he should do about the missing wasn't until Seamus (who usually took a considerable length of time before falling asleep) was snoring that Harry finally drifted off into slumber.

In view of his recent worries, it was only fitting that Harry's dreams revolved around the consequences if _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ was never found. This dream plagued him nearly every night for the next week, and it wasn't until he faced the Dementor in Defence Against the Dark Arts that finally banished it. However, a small part of Harry would give all the gold in his vault to have it back again, if only so he wouldn't hear his mother's dying voice while he slept.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione asked one afternoon. They were in the library occupied with some homework, which struck to Hermione as peculiar seeing as they were the only Third Years among the sea of Fifth and Seventh Years. While it was more than standard for her to spend time in the library, for her best friend Harry Potter, it was not.

"All right?" Harry repeated, turning his head to face Hermione. "Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?"

Hermione pursed her lips and busied her hands by cleaning the tip of her quill. "Well," she said, "you have been acting kind of odd lately."

"Odd?" asked Harry.

"Don't take this the wrong way," said Hermione slowly, "but you are spending your free time here in the library with me –"

"What's wrong with that?" interjected Harry. Underneath the table and away from Hermione's line of sight, he wiped his sweaty hands on his cloak. "You're one of my best friends, Hermione. I like spending time with you."

"That's not the problem, Harry." Hermione rolled her eyes at the bespectacled boy for interrupting her. "It's the fact that you've done so five times in a row. I thought you didn't like the library that much… why the change of heart?"

Harry thought of a reply, but none was forthcoming. How was he to explain to Hermione, the brightest witch of her age, that he was looking for the person who would be reading a storybook about his life? Not only would that lead to a conversation about the book's sequels, but at the fact that someone _somewhere_ knew what was going to happen in the future. With the amount of proof the books contained, Hermione was sure to believe in 'foresight', and Divination class was hard enough without her actually beginning to take it seriously.

"Um…" Harry blinked rapidly. "I really, really needed to work on my essays," he said, but the lilt in his voice at the end implied that he was unsure of his answer. That was the cause of his undoing. What followed was a very stressful interrogation that made Harry wish he had told the truth in the first place. Anything was worth not being subjected to the Spanish Inquisition.

Eventually, Harry lost control of his temper. "All right – all right, I get it!" he all but yelled, disturbing the occupants of the hushed library. Standing up, he quickly gathered his books and his pitiful looking essay, saying how he knew "when his company was not wanted."

This time, it was Hermione's turn to flounder like a fish out of water. "What – Harry, of course I didn't mean it like that! I don't mind studying with you."

Harry sighed. "Then why are you so eager to get rid of me?"

"I wasn't trying to get rid of you!" Harry snorted. "Don't you laugh at me, Harry!" Hermione threatened. "I've known you for three years and never in those times have you been this eager to go to the library to _study_. Besides, all you've been doing the past hour was look around at what other people are doing – not once have you added to your Charms essay!"

For the second time, the ball was on Harry's court. Damn, Hermione was too observant for her own good. She was right, of course. He had been neglected his essay, but only because the real reason he was in the library was not to work on it because if he was honest with himself, he could write a good enough draft in the Common Room with Ron. He figured that if someone had _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, they would certainly be reading it, and where else can someone read peacefully other than at a library?

It was simple logic, though it did not occur to young Harry that the person reading _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ was hiding in the bathroom of the Second Year Girls, specifically in the bathtub with the company of some cushions (kindly conjured by her brother Percy), a glass and a pitcher of pumpkin juice, and a basket of homemade cookies from her mother. Interestingly enough, she was currently reading the ninth chapter. Combining the very interesting subject matter and her above average reading skill, this would be the third time reading the book in two months.

She was so hooked to the narrative retelling of Harry's First Year that she would have advanced to the next instalment quite readily if it weren't for a couple of hindrances: the fact that she didn't have the book and she was too chicken to go up to the boy in question to ask for it, assuming that he has the copy and also, the second book would definitely be about Harry's Second Year at Hogwarts. That was also her First Year, the very same year that she was possessed by the spectre of Lord Voldemort. Fortunately for her, Harry was there to save the day.

Idly, Ginny Weasley laughed as the First Year version of Hermione Granger admonished her brother and Harry.

"_**You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" she snapped. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"**_

"_**The floor?" Harry suggested. "I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads."**_

Finishing the page, Ginny used one of her fingers to flick over unto the next page. It was good to forget the mundane worries of a boarding school girl – missing her parents, not getting along with her dorm mates, etc. – and simply fall into the world of stories, even if the story she was reading wasn't much of a story as it was a biography told in narrative.

At the back of her mind, at the furthest corner where some thoughts such as eating broccoli and washing behind her ears were stored and not particularly listened to, Ginny wondered how on earth a story book about Harry Potter came about. It wasn't like Harry to confide in someone, especially an author, about his personal experiences...

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><p>AN: Well, what do you guys think? Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated! Oh, and if there are any mistakes, even if it's just a missing apostrophe or I have typed the wrong tense for a verb, please tell me so that I can rectify it. What I'm saying is _be nit-picky!_ Sometimes, Microsoft Word's spell check skips over those _


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you, everyone, for keeping up with this humble story. Before I forget, I've deleted the the 'fourth chapter' entitled _Important Note_ in order to make the chapters coincide with the numbers of the links. The note messes the reading dynamics, anyway. Here's the next chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And PS, some parts will be blatantly taken out of the book. J.K. Rowling owns all!

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><p><span>The Power of Knowledge<span>

Chapter 5

Harry Potter was having a very relaxed week. It was one of those rare times in a student's academic career where they find themselves with a lot of free time, with no assignments that had to be handed in until late next week and no extracurricular activities, such as Quidditch practices, in the foreseeable future. Wood was, all of a sudden, struck ill (though Harry suspected the twins being behind the Quidditch captain's sudden need to empty his stomach on a regular basis).

Nevertheless, Harry spent his time wisely catching up on his reading _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ inside one of the castle's secluded towers. He wasn't exactly sure if anyone knew the tower actually existed, judging by the state of the room when Harry had found it: a thick layer of dust coated the floors and there were no furniture at all to speak of. There were three small windows that provide air and light, and while the room might seem dismal to the average person, it was like home to Harry.

Well, not home per se… but it sure did help him hide from the rest of the castle's inhabitants. It would not bode well if anyone caught him reading about an illicit organisation created by Dumbledore way back in the 70's. As it was, the secluded little tower reminded Harry somewhat of his cupboard back in Privet Drive – not exactly one of the best places in the world but it was safe, familiar.

_**When they were all seated and quiet, she said, 'You may begin,' and turned over an enormous hour-glass on the desk beside her, on which there were also spare quills, ink bottles and rolls of parchment.**_

_**Harry turned over his paper, his heart thumping hard – three rows to his right and four seats ahead Hermione was already scribbling – and lowered his eyes to the first question: a) Give the incantation and b) describe the wand movement required to make objects fly.**_

Immediately the memory of Ron levitating a troll's wooden club rushed to the forefront of Harry's mind, and it seemed that the book version of himself shared the same mind because he was recalling the memory as well. It wasn't until the book Harry was taking his Astronomy OWLs that the real Harry realised that of course he and the book version of himself shared the same mind – they were the same person, more or less. The character was based on him, after all, and in the next two years, that _could_ be him.

_I'd rather hope not _Harry thought idly as he flipped over a page. _I don't want to turn into a self-centred git who yells at his friends._ Come to think of it, his current life seemed so much better compared to Book Harry, even if a supposed mass murderer is after him. At least now he didn't have to care about leading an illegal school club, _or_ worry about passing his OWLs.

Shaking his head for the poor Fifth and Seventh Years working hard to pass their exams, Harry resumed reading.

_**He was walking along the cool, dark corridor to the Department of Mysteries again,**_ – Harry stiffened and unconsciously held his breath – **walking with a firm and purposeful tread, breaking **_**occasionally into a run, determined to reach his destination at last . . .**_He was having that dream again, and in the middle of an exam no less! Granted it was History of Magic, which sort of guaranteed him falling asleep at some point, but honestly? Why this dream? Why now? He would rather take on the dreadfully boring exam than that blasted bigot.

Sometimes – well, most of the time – okay, _all _the time – Harry hated being connected to Voldemort the way he was. Yes, it helped save lives like that time when Book Mr Weasley was bitten by the snake but other than that, Harry felt that it was nothing but a thorn at his side. With a resigned sigh, Harry continued reading.

He did not like what he saw.

_**'You'll have to kill me,' whispered Sirius.**_

_**'Undoubtedly I shall in the end,' said the cold voice.**_

"No," came his strangled cry. His grip on the book tightened, his fingers go white and red from the pressure. His entire body was stiff yet shaking at the same time, as if he was stuck outside with no cloak on or even a hint of a Warming Charm. He might not know Sirius Black as the Book Harry does, but a part of him sees felt the same way he does. After all, Sirius was the only family he had left. He was his godfather and his father's best friend. While Professor Lupin was a close friend of James Potter as well, he had not offered him a loving home like Book Sirius did in _Prisoner of Azkaban_.

In other words, he had not been Sirius. Harry didn't know how he could go on without Sirius Black. If Voldemort does indeed manage to kill him – and judging from Harry's luck so far in life, that event seemed very likely – then perhaps meeting the man later on in the year might not be such a good idea after all. _I mean_, Harry thought numbly, his eyes levelled at the jumbled words in front of him, _might as well save myself the trouble of getting my hopes up and then having them crushed_.

With the temper that Book Harry has got, Harry feared how he will react to his godfather's upcoming death. He hoped, somehow futilely, that he will not do anything drastic and put everyone he knew in danger.

Heaving a heavy sigh (and then coughing up a fit after he inhaled a large amount of dust), Harry gathered up his courage and picked up where he left off. He was a Gryffindor after all, and he would rather face this problem head on, so to speak, rather than think too much about it.

It wasn't until well into the evening that a heavy-hearted Harry left his tower sanctuary. A handful of hours had passed since he had read about Sirius being held captive by Voldemort, and now he had finished reading the book. He now knew what awaited him in his Fifth Year, what terrors and utter _stupidity_… It was his fault, undoubtedly. Book Sirius was dead because of the frantic decisions that the fifteen year old version of himself made.

"I wish could have un-read that," Harry mumbled quietly as he turned a corner. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not notice he was not alone in the corridor. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had figured that since dinner was being served, no one would be around the halls to bother him. Wallowing in misery was something he liked to do in private.

"Talking to yourself, wee Potty?" commented the intruder. "Going 'round the bend, are you?"

Harry glanced at the Poltergeist. "I'm not talking to myself," he denied. "Just… thinking out loud."

Peeves didn't look like he believed him, but he seemed to have gotten bored by the conversation so he simply blew a raspberry before passing through the walls, leaving Harry alone again. This time, he checked the entire perimeter before returning to his previous musings. Or he would have done so, if his stomach hadn't reminded him that there was a reason why everyone was in the Great Hall at this time.

"Food," he grumbled, patting his stomach in compassion. He has barely eaten anything all day, save for those Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans that, quite frankly, did not agree with him.

_Page Break_

Harry tried his best not to let his newfound knowledge concerning the godfather he had not officially met yet get to him, especially as the Quidditch game against Slytherin slowly approached. He felt very conflicted as, if _Prisoner of Azkaban_ was right about how the game will turn out, not only would Harry be overwhelmed by Dementors, miss the Snitch and lose the game for his House, but his beloved Nimbus 2000 would be battered by the Whomping Willow as well. Of course, the chances of the game turning out exactly like the one in the book was very unlikely – there were many factors that should be taken into account such as the weather and the split-moment decisions made during a Quidditch game – Harry still felt queasiness in his stomach.

"It's going to be a tough one," said Wood. Like Harry, he wasn't eating much of anything.

"Stop worrying, Oliver," replied Alicia in a soothing manner. Harry slowly tuned her out as he mentally prepared himself for the game. It was one thing to accept that his first broomstick would break after a freak accident with the Dementors, but it was quite another to let it happen when he knew that he could prevent it.

Grimacing, Harry followed his teammates towards the Quidditch field. His expression, usually excited at the prospect of a Quidditch game no matter the weather, was stoic and determined. It was out of his hands to control what was going to happen. The best he could do was just do his best. If he catches the Snitch before Diggory, then fine; a win would not affect anything major as far as he knew. If he doesn't catch the Snitch, then he would have other things to worry about. Trying not to split his head open when he falls comes to mind…

"Hey, Harry!" the twins called as they mounted their brooms. "Mind getting your head off the clouds and joining us for the game?" hollered George.

"Yeah!" continued Fred. "We don't want to lose to a bunch of 'Puffs do we now, Harry, me old chap!"

For the first time that day, Harry Potter grinned. There was nothing like a playful banter with the twins to lift one's spirits, even though _technically_ he hadn't really participated in the conversation. He didn't have the opportunity before Madam Hooch's shrill whistle was blasting in his ear. What he did have the opportunity for, however, was so choke over some choice swear words as the heavy rain quickly soaked him to the bone. He could not see beyond the tip of his broom, let alone hunt for the Snitch, it was raining so hard.

_I can't recall Book Me having this much trouble_, Harry thought desperately as he whizzed past the Hufflepuff Chasers and breaking up their minutes and two scores for Gryffindor later, Harry was touching ground after the time-out Wood had called.

"I've got no chance catching anything remotely Snitch-sized with these one," Harry said to Wood but addressing the team at large. "I might as well be underwater," he continued as he tugged his glasses off and wiped them dry with some cloth that Angelina conjured. "Thanks," he nodded to the girl. "Isn't there a spell somewhere that can make my glasses waterproof? I mean, I know there's a spell that can keep water out, but I don't think we've covered it in Charms yet."

Seeing the blank faces staring back at him, Harry figured that none of the older years have covered it as well. _Or they just can't remember. Bugger it all._ Harry ran a hand through his hair, though unfortunately he managed to hit something – well, some_one_ – with his elbow in the process.

"Dammit, I'm sorry!" was his immediate response. "Hermione, what are you doing here?" was his second followed by a "You know the spell!" as realisation dawned on him. The rest of the team shared looks at their Seeker's seemingly bipolar behaviour, but these went unnoticed as Harry quickly explained to Hermione the situation.

"Wow, Harry," commented the bushy haired witch as she took his glasses from him. Her eyebrows were raised in appreciation. "I didn't know you were aware of that spell. It's not on the Hogwarts syllabus, seeing as most wizards are unable to expand the charm beyond certain areas. While of course I find it a very interesting spell to learn, the professors think it's a waste of time to teach students because of its many restrictions –"

Before his best friend could go on a tangent (they do have a game to get back to, after all), Harry grabbed his glasses and propped them on his face. "I might not look it, Hermione," he smiled, "but I do pick up a book once in a while."

Hermione paused, started to say something, and then paused again.

"I don't just hang with you in the library to watch people, you know. I do read sometimes. But right not, I think I should get back to the game. See you later in the Common Room?"

Once Hermione returned for the stands, Fred and George each swung an arm over Harry's shoulders and praised his skills in handling the fairer sex. He sank into the mud a little because of their weight, but Harry would never dare mention it to the twins. "What do you mean my skills?" he asked. "I was just telling her the truth!"

The twins shared a look.

"Come off it, Harry," they chorused. "You're the last person aside from Ron who would voluntary pick up a book and learn _spells_," added Fred. He ruffled Harry's soaking wet hair.

"Jinxes and charms to mess with people, maybe," said George, "but practical spells like that Impervious Charm? We're thick, but not that thick."

"Oh, believe me Gred, Forge," Harry shrugged off their arms and swung his Nimbus to replace their weight, "you guys are not, as you put it, thick." He thought about the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and how much ingenuity, hard work and dedication the twins are capable of when given the right occasion. "And I do read."

George snorted. "Yeah, right. If you're a reader then I'm a saint."

Fred laughingly shoved his twin and mounted his broom. Time-out was nearly over. "And I'm a bleeding Hinkypunk. Just make sure you catch that Snitch, Harry!"

Harry accepted the light-hearted teasing and mounted his own broom. He sped off without as much as a worry about the game's ending. For now, he was just going to have fun doing what he does best: Quidditch.

_Page Break_

Muffled discussion permeated through the thick fog that was Harry's consciousness. The last thing he knew was pushing with all his might for his Nimbus to go faster. The Snitch was so close and Diggory was not that far of as well. He remembered making a desperate lunge towards the Snitch, scratching at the other Seeker's hands in his haste to get it… Now his head hurts, along with the rest of him, actually.

"Y'know, we wouldn't have minded if he does read up on practical spells in the library," admitted one of the twins. Harry was too punch-drunk to bother separating the two.

"Unlike Hermione here," continued the other twin, "we can totally see ickle Harrikins hitting the books. Maybe not as much as Ginny. That little sister of ours is always disappearing to read those wishy-washy novels of hers."

There was a scornful scoff, presumably from Hermione. "I didn't say it was a farfetched idea," she said. _Yes_, Harry thought_, definitely Hermione_. "I never said anything of the sort."

"But you don't believe him," someone else chimed it. It was one of the Chaser girls. Katie, maybe?

"Of course, I do –"

"You said so yourself that you didn't know Harry knew of that spell – what was it called again?" Chuckles and groans erupted from the pack gathered around Harry's prone form. Was it really that difficult to remember a spell that makes things water repellent? "You were surprised when he mentioned that he reads."

"No, I wasn't!"

"Really, could have fooled me," said Alicia. Harry was certain this was Alicia because the only person who heard her (apart from him) had hissed for her to be quiet else she'd get the wrath of an irritated bookworm.

"Get of her case, guys," came the reasonable voice of Harry's other best mate, Ron. "You're saying things Hermione never said." Hermione's thanks were soft and barely audible. "Of course, what she really meant was that she was surprised not by Harry reading because let's face it, the git doesn't wear glasses because it's _hip_ in the Muggle world."

What on earth was Ron talking about? And since when did he used the word "hip"? _Damn, he must have been talking to Dean again. Muggle slang was his thing._

"Hermione's just mad because Harry's giving her a run for her Galleons," finished Ron.

There was complete and utter silence after Ron finished his sentence. Just when everyone thought he had matured even for the slightest bit, he had gone and made a joke out of it. While he couldn't be blame – the cue was right there for the taking – no one could believe that he could say that. And within arm's length of the bushy haired witch herself. Harry couldn't help it anymore.

He snorted. Forcefully peeling his eyes open, he laughed his way to a sitting position until he had grabbed his glasses and settled his sheets comfortably around him. "Hello, everyone," he greeted cheerfully. "What did I miss?"

"Apparently, not much," answered Hermione, glaring at him coldly. "If you're fine enough to laugh in my expense, then I shouldn't have bothered waiting for you to wake up."

"C'mon, Hermione," said Harry with a winning smile. "Don't be like that!"

When the girl in question refused to meet his eyes (or anyone's, for that matter), Harry turned to his teammates and repeated his question, adding one about the results of the game. Despite the sense of foreboding Harry had felt this morning over breakfast, things had turned out pretty well. The Dementors still came and he had still fallen off his broom, but they had won the match after Harry barely scraped by in catching the elusive Snitch before Diggory could. There was a party in the Common Room in celebration for their victory.

"What about my Nimbus?" Harry asked. He almost regretted it upon seeing the smiles drop off his friends' faces.

"Well…" drawled Ron, the only one with enough courage – or stupidity – to brave whatever reaction Harry would have once the news was delivered. What he wasn't aware of, however, was that Harry already knew what happened to his broom. It was asking too much of serendipity for that to have changed.

After hearing Ron and Hermione (who had gotten over her anger) recount the events that led to his trusted broomstick, Harry didn't know what to feel. Things had not gone the way they did in the _Prisoner of Azkaban_, but still the results were the same more or less. The Dementors still flock to him like a drug, he still fell several feet off his broom and into the squelchy mud of the Quidditch Pitch, and his Nimbus 2000 was ruined beyond repair. Only, The Whomping Willow was not to blame. This time, his broomstick had simply been blown into across the grounds before drowning in the Black Lake.

_Oh well_, Harry mused as he settled into bed later that night, _at least I'll have that Firebolt to look forward to_.

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><p>AN: Please review! They make my day, you know :D For more information on this story, feel free to visit a blog that I made for all extras relating to my fanfiction. I think there's a link in my profile, but in case that does not work just Google search for "Vault #1557091".


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I completely apologize for the long-ish wait. I hope no one too mad at me. My excuse? I got caught up in the BBC Sherlock fandom. Who knew some well-written Johnlock can captivate a reader so? *cough* Anyway, on with the story!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And PS, some parts will be blatantly taken out of the book. J.K. Rowling owns all!

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><p><span>The Power of Knowledge<span>

Chapter 6

It was late afternoon and Harry Potter, who held the title of youngest Seeker of the century, was seriously considering quitting the Gryffindor team. While he had no trouble working with the team (and after the first year he was used to Oliver's exuberance), it was his broomstick that annoyed him. _Or_, he supposed as he towelled his fresh-from-an-invigorating -shower hair, _it's my lack of one that's bothering me. When is Christmas again? _Harry didn't want to sound like an ungrateful child eagerly waiting for the holidays to come around, but he really needed that Firebolt else he'd go mad.

"I've seen bloody butterflies fly faster," he grumbled, thinking about the last practice and how his teammates literally ran laps around him. Shooting Stars, he had to admit, were not the best brooms for competitive Quidditch. They might be good for a quick pick-up game during the summer, but not against matches with the Slytherins.

"Did you say something, Harry?" asked Neville, who was writing a letter to someone (presumably his grandmother).

"Nothing," Harry replied as he ruffled through his trunk for a clean shirt. "Just talking to myself – hey, have you by any chance seen that blue shirt I wore last week?"

Neville shrugged even though he knew Harry would not be able to see. "Did you check the laundry bin?"

"We have a laundry bin?" Harry retorted, grabbing his wand on his pillow to Summon the aforementioned bin. He shoved aside some of Dudley's horrid hand-me-downs just to make sure before checking the laundry bin for his favourite blue shirt. It was the only shirt he owned that fit him comfortably enough without either strangling him by the neck or drowning him in a sea of excess material.

"Found it?" asked Neville a minute later.

"Nah," Harry laughed good-naturedly, "I realised halfway through searching the pile that I just finished taking a shower, and so I should be looking for a fresh shirt, not a spoiled one I wore a week before. Sorry to bother your letter writing, Neville."

"It's no problem, Harry," Neville said before returning to his desk.

Harry donned the first shirt he could see in his trunk and, after shouting a "see you later" to Neville as he left the dorm room, he trudged down the stairs with half his mind wondering where the hell his blue shirt had gotten to. The other half was drifting back to the most recent Quidditch practice. He heaved a heavy sigh.

"Just so you know," Harry began as he approached his friends in the Common Room, "as of this afternoon," he jumped over the back of the sofa and landed quite comfortably, kicking off his shoes and crossing his legs at the ankles, his hands tucked behind his head, "I bloody well hate Shooting Stars."

Ron snorted in reply and Hermione absentmindedly admonished him for his language. Ginny on the other hand, while not sitting next to Harry and his friends per se, was sitting within earshot and so she replied with a snarky remark before realising it was Harry – _the_ Harry – that she was talking to. A bright blush suffused her freckled cheeks.

"What do you mean make a wish?" Harry asked her, confused. It did not occur to him that not once had he spoken to Ginny the entire year, and while he did not mean to be rude about it (because really, Ginny knew that it was lack of opportunity more than anything), this conversation would be their very first in a long time.

As it was, Ginny Weasley was suitably at a loss on what to say. She had no idea what spurred her to answer Harry's open-ended remark about shooting stars. What she said wasn't even that funny and she doubt Harry saw the humour in it. "Um," she said, hoping that the sound along would kick start her brain to begin working.

And it did.

"You know about shooting stars… how when people see them they make a wish? I said what I said because you mentioned shooting stars and I thought _hey_,_ you should make a wish!_"

Well, close enough. At least there were no butter dishes nearby to sink her elbow into. Ginny roused from her thoughts as she heard Harry laughter. Blushing even deeper, she glared at the boy in question and asked what was so funny.

"N-nothing." Harry clutched at his stomach. "Just – ah…" he looked sideways at Ron for support, but the redhead was slowly backing away from the incoming storm he knew was coming. Ginny was a spitfire, and when someone foolish enough to stoke the fire just like Harry, the best course of action was to find the nearest shelter and hide. In this case, the other side of the Common Room was a safe enough spot.

"Well?" Ginny asked testily. There was no doubt that she was angry and there was no mistaking that she was mad at Harry Potter, but the question stands: was she mad because he laughed at her, or was she mad because Harry didn't seem perturbed by her I'm-going-to-make-your-life-hell look. If it was the former, then she had no idea what was so funny – her joke couldn't be that funny – and Harry was honestly being rude by laughing at her. If the latter, then… Did Harry not see that she was glaring at him? Her brothers knew what the look stood for; was Harry simply oblivious or reckless?

"Sorry, Ginny," Harry said, raising his hand up as a sign of surrender. "I, uh – what you said… You do know I was talking about the broomstick, not the _actual_ shooting star. That's why I laughed. Sorry if I offended you or anything."

Harry studied Ginny's expression closely, watching as she froze at the realisation of her mistake. The bones in her neck became prominent and her jaw tensed. She refused to make eye contact, which quite frankly Harry found a little worrying. Was she furious at him? As he apologised again, Ginny muttered something about doing some work up in her dorm and swiftly fled the scene.

Suffice to say, Harry was confused. He looked at Hermione, who was unsuccessfully hiding an amused smile. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

Hermione closed her book and used her finger as a bookmark. "Well," she said, "you did embarrass the poor girl."

"Me?" Harry sputtered. "Embarrass her? How?"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Do you want the quick version or the long version?"

"What? Does it really matter?"

"The long version then," Hermione chose for him. "First of all, you put Ginny on the spotlight. In case it has skipped your notice, Harry, but the two of you are not exactly close friends." At Harry's surprised look, Hermione rushed to say: "Be that as it may, you surprised her. Second of all, when you laughed she undoubtedly felt that you were making fun of her."

"I was not!"

"I know you weren't, but did she?" Hermione pleaded with her eyes for Harry to understand, knowing that he was most prone to defending himself than putting himself in Ginny's shoes when it came to these matters. He really didn't feel like he was in the wrong – not that he was, to be fair. Ginny was just as wrong as Harry was, running away like she did without any proper explanation.

Harry sighed and massaged the back of his neck, as he usually did when he was deep in thought. "I suppose I should go and apologise," he said finally.

"Maybe not right now," Hermione smiled. "Boys aren't allowed in the girls' dorms, remember?" At Harry's despondent expression, Hermione rolled her eyes – since when was Harry this worried about making amends with someone? "How about waiting for her to come back down? She forgot her bag and I'm sure she'll be doing it if she wants to get any real work done."

Harry looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Er, you _do_ know that was probably lying when she said that, right?" He uncrossed and crossed his ankles, resigned as he was to some time waiting. "She wanted to get away from me. You explained that to me perfectly well."

"Oh," Hermione said. "Nevertheless, she'll realise that she forgot her bag sooner or later. Just apologise when she gets back down, all right?"

Grunting his assent, Harry settled into a more comfortable position. He waited in silence for the next hour and a half, though when lunchtime rolled around he debated whether to leave his post or not. Ron was waiting impatiently by the portrait hole while Hermione, stuffing _Numerology and Gramatica_ into her bag, distractedly reminded him that the Great Hall was serving hot cocoa to counteract the encroaching winter weather.

And Harry liked Hogwarts' hot cocoa.

"Actually," Harry sighed, "I think I'll pass this time. I'd rather wait for Ginny, if you guys don't mind."

From the portrait, Ron shrugged and commented, "It's not your fault Ginny can't stay in the same room as you without acting weird, but suit yourself. More cocoa for me then!"

As the Fat Lady's portrait swung behind his two best friends, Harry stood up and stretched his stiff muscles before sitting back down lengthwise across the sofa. If he was going to wait for Ginny to come back down, he might as well be comfortable doing it – well, more comfortable than he was before he moved.

Ten minutes pass and Harry's stomach softly grumbled. With a reaction that was a mix of a grimace and chuckle, he reached for his wand and casually Summoned a Chocolate Frog from his dormitory. It took several tries for the damned confectionary to zoom into Harry's hands, seeing as it had to push its way out through a small wedge between the lid of the trunk and the base. Harry paid the battered Chocolate Frog no mind as his fingers made quick work on unwrapping the package. Absently, he thought of how dependent he's been on the Summoning Charm despite it being slightly advanced a spell for his age.

_I seem to be Summoning things a lot, _he thought. _From the laundry bin – still can't believe we have one of those – to the Chocolate Frog. Sweet frog. I want another one… _There was another flick of his wand and another Chocolate Frog descended the stairs. Harry continued with his line of thought: _Next thing I know, I'd be Summoning my school books from class to class instead of – _Harry chocked on the frog's leg.

_Books._

Harry sat upright. "I could Summon books," he said to the empty Common Room. Well, relatively empty apart from the napping Fifth Year by the fireplace (it was his OWL year) and Neville's toad Trevor glaring at him by the window. (Harry suspects the toad did not like him eating the Chocolate Frogs.)

"Nothing's stopping me from charming my missing book to come to me," said Harry lowly as his right hand increasing its grip on his wand. His heart was thudding loudly within the confines of his chest – how come he didn't think of Summoning _Philosopher's Stone _before? Harry pressed his lips together and breathed in deep through his nose. "Accio _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_!" he whispered fervently.

At first there was no reaction and Harry visibly wilted, his energy gone. Then, there came a scuffling sound like a Snitch clawing its way out a jar of marbles. _Or _I_ could be losing my marbles, _Harry thought as he strained his ears. The sound was coming from the Common Room, that much Harry was sure, but from where? Harry cast his eyes across the room and landed immediately at the vibrating school bag a few feet away.

"Ginny's bag," he breathed. Ginny Weasley has _Philosopher's Stone_ in her bag, but how was the possible? Did she steal it from his trunk before they left The Leaky Cauldron…? But that can't be. Harry distinctly remembered locking the seven books in his trunk. Ginny can't have broken in, and even if she did what would have been her excuse other than simply rummaging in his trunk for the fun of it.

_No_, Harry shook his head sharply. _Ginny's not like that. _He might not know the girl very well, but he refused to believe she would look through his trunk uninvited. Pressing both his thumbs to his temples, Harry took a second (or three) before walking towards Ginny's bag and clicking the bag open. He felt like a hypocrite, however the importance of retrieving the book that told of his First Year was heavier than respecting Ginny's privacy.

He strongly hoped that the girl in question would understand.

Reaching blindly into the bag (Harry didn't want to peek and trespass further into Ginny's privacy), he searched for the familiar texture and shape of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_. His hand had just grabbed hold of the thin volume when, just his luck, Ginny Weasley traipsed down the girl's staircase.

"Harry," she asked, shell-shocked, "what are you doing?"

Harry jerked around, the book secured in his grip. He had on his face the look of a thief caught red-handed – which he was, in a way. He was only stealing back what was rightfully his in the first place. "Ginny," he gulped, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –" he gestured to the opened bag "– y'know, but I've been looking for this book for _months_ and I was dead worried that a Slytherin or Snape or _Dumbledore_ might have gotten hold of it or…" Harry trailed off as complete and utter horror sunk into his features. "You didn't tell Dumbledore about this book, did you?" came his strangled question.

Ginny, who was stunned into impersonating a goldfish when Harry began rambling (so it wasn't just her who was afflicted with that illness, thank Merlin), simply blinked at Harry in response. Not once did it occur to tell Dumbledore about that book. She was not the type to come running towards the Headmaster when strange things happen, and she was definitely not the petty type to blab to someone against Harry. She held to grudge for him. _Well, _she thought, _I didn't until now._

A flash of anger coursed through Ginny's veins. "You were searching through my bag!" she accused. "That's an invasion of privacy!"

Harry at the very least had the decency to blush. "Well, you were reading a story about _my _First Year," he retorted. "This is an exact recording of my thoughts and experiences, some of which were only privy to me until you read it!" Because really, there was no doubt that Ginny had ready the book.

Ginny snapped her mouth closed, stumped. Harry was right, of course. She had no right to read the book without his expressed permission. However, she could not change the past just as much as she can predict the future, which left her dealing with the present. Crossing her arms, she asked Harry how he knew that the book was in her bag.

"There's a spell I know," Harry said, inattentively massaging his neck as he spoke. "It's called the Summoning Charm and it allows you to," he paused, searching for the right word, "…call things towards you if they're too far away to reach. Well, that's what I've been using the spell for anyway."

Ginny couldn't help but snort her amusement. "Wow, I did _not_ peg you down as a lazy arse," she said, forgetting that she was talking to Harry and not one of her brothers (or one of her tetchy classmates, for that matter). Harry simply raised an eyebrow in response, which prompted a soft apology and blood to flood her freckled cheeks.

"No need to apologise," Harry said, clearly amused. "I spend the majority of my time with your brother, remember?"

"Which one?" Ginny countered. There was twinkle in her eye that told Harry he was forgiven for invading her privacy the way he did; it was necessary, after all. Well, not really. He could have waited until Ginny had arrived and ask if he can look through her bag (which, admittedly, Ginny was sure to deny permission), but Ginny was willing to let that go. It was about time she returned that book, anyway.

Harry and Ginny exchanged more teasing remarks and quips for the next minute or so. Some would say they were flirting, just like Ron and Hermione only with less hostility, though of course only _some _people would say that. Neither Harry nor Ginny would be included in that group, for each think that they were only establishing their tentative friendship, each reply for a snarky comment a test for how much the other would go and could take.

When Harry's stomach gave a resounding growl, he suggested they head down to the Great Hall to eat. They talked for the entire trip, but never ventured towards the events that surrounded Harry's First Year. Finally upon entering the Great Hall, the two new friends separated to join their own circles. It was just another normal day for Harry and Ginny, respectively, and none knew the wiser.

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><p>AN: As always, reviews are very much appreciated.


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